Part 49 (2/2)
”Ha!” said Charles sneeringly. ”More plots and politics! If I could be schemed into a crown, you'd be the man to do it.”
”I must be acquent wi' what gaes on in the toun, your Royal Highness, an'
ma man yonder's a rare ferret, but I didna think him worthy to be in the presence, sae I just bundled him oot.”
”All your plotting and contrivings will not do you as much good as a gla.s.s of brandy. The climate's getting at you.”
Indeed Mr. Secretary was all of a shake, and looked in a scared manner from the Prince to me and back again.
”It's naething but a little queasiness, such as we elder, bookish men are apt to get by ower-much application. Your Royal Highness is gracious to note my little ailments,” said he smoothly. He had recovered already.
”Try brandy!” said Charles. ”It settles the stomach fine. Well, come and take down a reply to this while I have some breakfast!”
The queasiness seemed to return, for Mr. Secretary was slow, captious, and argumentative, though the matter of the dispatch was only as to where the army should halt for a day's rest. At last Preston was decided on, and the dispatch written accordingly. I bowed myself out, jumped on the sorrel, and started for the Stockport road.
Our rear was closer up than usual this morning. Manchester, being a considerable town, was not to be cleared of our main of troops until the first column of the rear was in the southern skirts of the town. Outside the Prince's lodging, his escort of life-guards was now drawn up. As I rode along the edge of the market-square the Camerons were ma.s.sing, and the streets adjacent were seething with clansmen.
I put the sorrel to it and was soon out in the low open country. After cantering a mile or so, I caught sight of two hors.e.m.e.n, well ahead of me, riding south at a round gallop. One of them wore a big mulberry wrap-rascal. It is no uncommon garment to see along a turnpike on a biting December day, but, ten minutes later, after they dropped to a walk to ease their horses up a slope, I saw the silver guarding round the pockets.
If this were the man I had seen hurrying out of Mr. Secretary's room, a look at him would be worth while, so I spurred after them. The clatter I made had the desired effect. At the top of the slope, wrap-rascal turned round. It was Weir, the Government spy. He squealed to his companion, who looked back in turn. My heart leaped fiercely at the sight of his seamed leathery face and dab-of-putty nose. It was the sergeant of dragoons.
Down the slope they raced, with me after them full tilt, proud as a peac.o.c.k to be driving two men headlong before me, and one of them an old campaigner. It was my undoing. The road was lined with straggling hedges, and a long pistol shot ahead, a cross-track cut it. The sergeant was giving orders to the spy as they rode, and at the crossway the sergeant, shouting, ”Shoot low!” turned sharp to the left while the spy made for the right.
It was a pretty trick, for it put me between two fires. I was on the spy's pistol hand as he turned, and he let fly at me, not out of calculated bravery, as his face plainly showed, but in a flurry of despair. The motive behind a shot, however, does not matter. It's the bullet that counts, and his got me just above the left elbow. I was up in my stirrups, aiming at the sergeant, who was pulling his horse round to be at me. I saw splinters fly from a bough to his right.
I had not looked to the spy. Now a shot rang out down the lane on his side. It was followed by a piercing shriek, and this by another shot. In between the shots, the serjeant wheeled round, and raced off down the lane for dear life, spurring and flogging like a maniac. It was useless to follow. My rein hand had lost its grip, my arm felt aflame, and blood was already dripping fast from my helpless fingers.
Looking down the lane, I saw Weir lying in the road, and a strange horseman climbing down from his saddle. I rode up to him.
”How d'ye do?” he said affably. ”Sorry I could not get the other chap for you, but I meant having Turnditch. The dirty rascal has sent his last lad to the gallows. Faugh! I could spit on his carrion.”
A glance to the road showed that he was right. The spy's blank, yellow face was turned upwards; his eyes, with the horror of h.e.l.l still in them, stared wide-open at the sky. Just above his right eyebrow there was a hole I could have put my finger in.
”d.a.m.n my silly eyes!” cried the stranger. ”You're winged, sir, and badly.
It must be seen to at once.”
He helped me down, took off my coat and waistcoat, and turned up my s.h.i.+rt-sleeve, doing all this deftly and almost womanly.
”Hurrah! Missed the bone and gone clear through! Put you right in no time! Plug down your finger there, sir, while I cut a stick. That's excellent. You won't mind if I keep you while I reload my barkers? The safe side, you know!”
With his handkerchief and my own, and a length of hazel for a tourniquet, he bound up the wound, and with much skill, for he at once reduced the flow of blood to a mere trickle. While he was busy over me, I took stock of him.
He was a man of about my own age and height, but slimmer and wirier. His features were rather irregular, but an intelligent, humorous look atoned for this defect, and his bright grey eyes were the quickest I have ever seen. Though an utter stranger, there was a puzzling familiarity about him, and I tried hard to recall which of my acquaintance featured him. His horse, now cropping at the roadside, was a splendid brown blood mare, the best horse, barring Sultan, I had seen for many a day. The last thing I noted was that the man was singularly well dressed.
”That's patched you up till you can get to a regular doctor. There's a first-cla.s.s man at Stockport, opposite the west door of the church, Bamford by name. You can't miss his place, and he'll pocket his fee like a wise man ind ask no questions.”
”You've done very well, sir,” said I. ”The blood has almost ceased to flow. I'm greatly beholden to you.”
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